


Broken Glass (I'm the Pieces on the Floor)

by dksm41



Category: MacGyver (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Gen, Graphic Suicidal Ideations, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Physical Abuse, Non-Graphic Mentions of Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 06:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18515395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dksm41/pseuds/dksm41
Summary: Bozer had sworn to himself he would never drink like that again, but on days like these, the bottle has never looked so tempting.





	Broken Glass (I'm the Pieces on the Floor)

**Author's Note:**

> Word Count: 3,738 words; seven pages on Word
> 
> Author’s Note: I’m gonna be honest: I haven’t watched MacGyver since the end of season 1. I know I’m bad for it, but I just couldn’t get into the second season and the third does not appeal to me, especially since Jack’s departure from the show. But, even still, I love Bozer and crave more Bozer whumpage. So here’s my third attempt at it.
> 
> I really didn’t know how to write this. I tried, but I don’t think I’m entirely too happy about how it came out. However, this was the best I could do for it. On another note, though, I really want to write Bozer!whump, but I am so running out of ideas, so if you guys could please leave some suggestions in the reviews, I would greatly appreciate it. Other than that, please enjoy!

xxxxxxx

He hated this. He hated every single thing about it. He hated feeling the weight on his chest, on his shoulders. He hated the overwhelming feeling of hopelessness and despair. Hell, _that_ didn’t even cover what he felt. He felt lonely, broken. He felt like a ragdoll, old and weary, strings fraying at the edges. All it would take would be one little pull, and the entirety of him would unravel. Instead of a whole figure, with a smile and warm body, he would become a jumbled ball of colored yarn, indecipherable and a mess. From there, that broken mess of what used to be will be dumped, thrown away, left to rot in a pile of trash and become nothing.

He would become broken pieces of nevermore.

Or was he already that? As he stared into the flames before him, Bozer couldn’t help but wonder if he had already fallen apart at the seams, unable to be repaired, glued back together.

He shook his head. As much as he’d like to compare himself to a ragdoll, he couldn’t. Ragdolls could not be broken. They could always be stitched back together. Why? Because children’s toys couldn’t fade away. Anything handed to a child had to have been designed to be unbreakable, or at least fixable, because a child shouldn’t worry about anything more than the next plaything. They should never be exposed to damage at such an age.

No. A bottle, he decided, was a more fitting comparison. A glass one, at that. Plastic bottles could crumple, but glass will shatter. It will shatter into a million pieces, and, try as they might, no one will ever find all the missing shards. And if they do, it will be long after the bottle had shattered, long after they had given up fixing it and had thrown it in the trash, and they will sit there and frown. They will frown at the broken piece of glass, thinking _I could have hurt myself with this_ and they will throw it away also, never remembering where the shard had come from. The bottle would go unfixed, and the shards would never piece itself back together again. The bottle would never cross their mind, and it will remain forgotten.

Bozer swallowed thickly. The metal coin in his hand burned his palm, seared his flesh. Not literally, but he supposed that would hurt much less. He couldn’t do this. He had sworn he wouldn’t. Never again.

His three-month sobriety chip.

God, had it really been three months? It seemed like only yesterday. He could still feel the weight of the bottle in his hands. He remembered the brand name, too. Some cheap whiskey off the middle shelves in the store: Old Crow Whiskey. What kind of a name was that? And yet, he still plucked it off the rack, stumbled over to the counter, paid the cashier, and drove home. He hadn’t even bothered with glasses. No, he just popped off the cap, the satisfying _crack_ of the seal breaking filling his ears. He tilted the bottle to his lips and chugged.

He had been home alone. He always made sure no one would be around to see it, see him. Not Riley, not Jack, not Matty, and _especially_ not Mac. Holy shit, if Mac found out…all Hell would break loose, and Bozer was sincerely not looking forward to that ever happening.

It hadn’t taken long for the buzz to kick in. Sure, he wasn’t high, he wasn’t doing drugs, but it definitely felt like it. With one glass bottle, all his fears and anxieties had melted away. His thoughts cleared, no longer shrouded by darkness, tainting his memories, questioning his actions and even inactions. He had been free of any semblance of self-hatred, and it had been so very welcomed. After years of living his life hating everything that he was, even the briefest moments of relief were a joy, no matter how it had been brought about.

And so what if he had broken the bottle afterwards? Maybe he just wanted to pretend the bottle had been himself. Maybe he just wanted to see himself broken. Feelings were so much easier to process when they were physical, able to be held in the palm of his hands. But when it was buried deep inside him, far beyond his reach, nothing could ever compare to the pain and agony he felt. Being able to drop the bottle – just like that – and watch all of his worries scatter away, it was a sweet release.

He almost didn’t want to clean it up. To see that bottle broken, it had been mesmerizing, but Mac was going to come home sooner or later, and Bozer, through his hazy and inebriated state of mind, could not form a plausible reason as to why a completely new yet empty whiskey bottle lay shattered on their floor. So he cleaned up his mess, but not quite the mess he wished he had fixed.

Even then, he hadn’t considered it a problem. No, it was when he started digging for more alcohol to consume _after that_ did he realized something may be wrong. It was when he noticed that all the beers in the house had suddenly disappeared. It was when he noticed his secret stash underneath his bed was gone. It was when it clicked in his mind that he even _had_ a secret stash. Who keeps alcohol hidden beneath their bed?

Bozer choked on his own breath as he clutched the medallion tighter, even as the edges dug into his skin. The pain grounded him as his mind flashed back to what he had been, who he had been becoming. His father. His mother. The very same people who were supposed to protect him, yet hurt him. All because he had made a mistake. A mistake that had gotten his younger brother killed.

_I should’ve been faster. I should’ve been more careful_. Bozer closed his eyes and bowed his head, clasping his other hand around the one that held the coin and brought them into a prayer-like position. _I deserved it. I deserved everything I got. They were right. They had always been right._

That’s not what the people in those A.A. meetings said, though. They would approach him after, give their condolences to him about his childhood, but what were they apologizing for? He deserved what he had gotten. He had killed his brother. He didn’t deserve the release drinking gave him. He didn’t deserve to feel anything at all.

Because even feeling pain was more than Josh would ever experience again.

_You deserve this. You deserve to feel empty. You deserve to feel hollow. You deserve this._

Oh, how he craved a drink right about now. Thoughts like these had always been washed away by the burning sensation that felt so good as alcohol crept down his throat, settling deep in and massaging away his pain, almost saying _Hey, it’s okay. Come to me. I’ll keep you safe from anything, from everything._ And it did. It took away the pain and left him numb. Perfectly and utterly numb. But numb in the way he didn’t deserve.

Bozer opened his eyes, shivering as the cold wind blew by him. The flames in front of him flickered dangerously, threatening to douse him in darkness and take away the warmth he did not deserve to feel. He pulled his hands away and opened up his fist. There, the coin sat, inanimate yet still staring accusingly.

_Don’t do it,_ it said. _You’ve worked hard to hold me. Take a drink and you are no longer worthy of my meaning_.

Bozer swallowed thickly. It had been hard to get clean. Hell, that was an understatement. It had been _torture_ , agony. It included countless sleepless nights, tossing and turning, trying to expel those dangerous thoughts from his mind. He wanted it to stop – _God, please stop!_ – but they just kept coming around. Again and again. It never ended.

Why did he get clean? Well, he liked to think it was because he realized that alcoholism was a deadly disease, a disorder that could get him killed, that he had enough self-preservation to grasp the fact that he didn’t want to die. That wasn’t it, though. Mac. The answer had been, and always will be, Mac. If Bozer died, he knew Mac wouldn’t be alone – they had friends to get him through Bozer’s death – but he kept pushing that thought aside and continued to convince himself that Mac needed him, even though his friend was an adult now and could take of himself.

_He needs me. He needs me_. Bozer could feel the tears forming. _He has to need me. I need him to need me._

Who was the reliant one now?

Bozer sighed. He had made it three months without a drink. He had made it _three months_. Three months felt like a long time. The green coin glittered in the presence of the fire’s glow, the words _“3 months”_ seared into his mind. If he broke now, he could never crawl back, and he would never forgive himself.

_You deserve the pain_ , the voice – _Mac?_ – whispered. _You deserve every bit of this. You don’t deserve the release a drink gives you. You deserve to suffer._

God, he wanted a bottle so badly. He just wanted the voice to go away. He didn’t want this anymore. When would it finally be enough? Had he not already paid the price?

_Josh, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Mom, dad, I didn’t mean it! I miss him. I miss him every day. Please! I can’t do this anymore!_

His hands trembled, shaking like a dead leaf in the midst of a hurricane. The bottle…he needed a bottle. Anything. _Anything_. Whiskey, beer, wine, vodka…anything. Please. He couldn’t _do this_ anymore. He needed the voices to go away. _Please._

“Bozer?”

Oh, _fuck_.

Bozer quickly tried to blink away his tears as he immediately tightened his grip around the coin, concealing it from view. He looked up to see the sight of a concerned blonde staring down at him. A small, white bandage rested on his cheek, a result of the mission he had been on.

“Mac? You’re home early.” He sounded tired, his voice cracking and hoarse from disuse.

Mac shrugged, still eyeing him carefully as he settled down across from him. He fed the dying fire a few wooden logs. “Luck was on our side. Everything went smoother than we thought it would.”

“And the cut?”

Mac gingerly touched the bandage, almost as if he had forgotten it was there and sought to remind himself. “That? Nothing. Cut myself during a fight with another guy. Jack and I took care of it.”

Bozer’s mouth went dry.

_See? Why does he need you? He has Jack to help him. And he’s a much better friend and bodyguard than you._

He bit the inside of his cheek. _He needs me. He has to._

_He doesn’t have to do anything. You, on the other hand, there’s a knife with your name on it._

Bozer made a small, wounded noise at that. Holy shit. That one was unexpected. He knew deep down that the thoughts were his own, but he had never…he didn’t want to do that…did he?

Mac’s head snapped up from his focus on the fire. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Bozer choked out, clearing his throat quietly.

Mac eyed him suspiciously. “No…something’s wrong. What’s going on, Boze?”

Bozer shook his head. “Mm-mm. Nothing. I’m good.” His hand involuntarily gripped the chip harder.

_The bottle. The knife. The bottle. The knife. You’re the bottle. Grab the knife._

Mac could see it. Bozer knew he could see it. He watched as Mac’s face morphed into one of worry as he stared down at Bozer’s clenched fist. His eyes slowly raised to meet Bozer’s, who immediately averted his gaze.

“Hey, what’s going on?” He spoke softly, quietly, not wanting to sound demanding should Bozer shut down on him.

Bozer bowed his neck and placed his clasped hands to his forehead to hide his face. He closed his eyes. “I just want it to stop,” he whispered, his body trembling despite the fire in front of them. Mac figured the cold wasn’t the problem.

Alarms went off in Mac’s head. _Stop? Stop what? What’s going on?_ Before he had left, Bozer had seemed completely fine. He had even cooked him breakfast and sent him and the team off with lunch and dinner. Mac had only been gone two days. What could have possibly happened?

“Bozer?” Mac called gently. He rose from his seat on the opposite side of the fire and approached his best friend cautiously. He sat back down next to Bozer, shoulders barely touching. “Talk to me. What needs to stop? What are you talking about?”

Mac could feel the exhaustion creeping up on him. The mission had been tiring and now that he had returned home, all he wanted to do was relax. But he couldn’t. Not when he knew something was bothering Bozer. He wouldn’t be able to sleep with the thought in his mind that Bozer was suffering, and he would never forgive himself if he didn’t make any attempt to stop it. So, no, he would not be going to sleep, not yet, not when work remained to be completed.

“I can’t,” Bozer admitted quietly, voice shrouded in despair. “I can’t _do this_ anymore.”

A cold grip encased Mac’s heart and squeezed tightly. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as a shiver ran through him. If the words didn’t scare him, the complete and utter helplessness in Bozer’s tone did. Hesitating slightly, Mac lifted a tentative hand before gently placing his hand on Bozer’s knee. Bozer’s shaking ceased.

“Bozer, I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me. Please. What’s going on?”

It took a moment – too long – but Bozer pulled his fist away from his head and it out in front of him. He opened his eyes – Mac tried to pretend he didn’t notice the tears – and unclenched his hands. There lay the shiny green coin, the reflection of the flames illuminating the words that said, _“To Thine Own Self Be True”._ A pyramid rested in the middle with each side containing one word: _“Unity”_ , _“Service”_ , and _“Recovery”_. A circle with _“3 months”_ resided in the center of the pyramid.

A burning sense of anger, hurt, and confusion began to swallow Mac’s conscience whole. The hell was this? He’d seen these chips before, handed to... _drug abusers._ When? What had he been using?

“The _fuck?”_ Mac couldn’t help the rage that slipped through into his words. Bozer flinched back violently at the fury and suddenly tight hold on his knee.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Bozer breathed out, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to wash his face.

“What did you _do?”_ Mac knew he shouldn’t be losing his temper – not now – but the exhaustion still attempted to claim him and he couldn’t be bothered to hide his disappointment at the fact that _Bozer_ , his _best friend_ , was a _drug addict_.

“I’m sorry,” Bozer apologized again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I-”

“Didn’t mean to what, Bozer?” Mac snapped. “Didn’t mean to get addicted to _drugs?”_

Bozer’s head shot up and he fixed Mac with a stricken glance. “Not drugs, Mac. Alcohol.”

Well, that wasn’t exactly _better_ , but it was still… _better?_ Mac didn’t quite know how to explain the relief he felt in his chest at that. Sure, he still felt horrified at the fact Bozer had even resorted to any addiction at all, but it could almost be seen as less scary when Mac knew his best friend never injected himself with a potentially unsterilized needle or snorted a powder he had found on the streets.

Shit. What did his _liver_ look like?

Mac choked on his own breath. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, sincerity coating his voice and all anger dissipating. “I’m sorry.” He released his grip on Bozer’s leg and, instead, wrapped his arms around Bozer’s shoulders. He pulled his friend in closer; Bozer didn’t fight it.

“Why? How long?”

Bozer let out a shaky breath. “I stopped three months ago. But I…I still…”

A sympathetic noise escaped from the back of Mac’s throat. “I know.”

“I just…” Bozer’s voice cracked. “I didn’t…I didn’t _want_ this. But it was the only thing that made it just… _stop_.”

There it was again. Bozer wanted it to stop. But why? And what?

“What needed to stop, Boze?”

Bozer hesitated, remaining quiet as he tried to form the right words to say. “The thoughts.”

Mac’s mouth went dry. “What thoughts?”

“Sometimes they’re memories. Other times, it’s just a voice in my head telling me that I deserve this, that I deserve to suffer. I don’t deserve to be okay.”

Mac swallowed thickly. “What? Why would you ever think that?”

“How could you _not?”_ Bozer cried. “I’m fucking _pathetic_ , Mac! I-”

“Okay, shut up right now because no. Absolutely not.” Mac took a deep breath and held Bozer tighter. “ _No_. You’re not pathetic, Bozer.”

“Yes, I am! I wasn’t made for this job, for any of it! I can’t do a single thing right anymore! I’m not fucking needed! I’m literally just a waste of space and I- I…” Bozer choked on his own breath. “I couldn’t even save my own brother.”

Mac’s heart shattered. Josh. Bozer never spoke about him. Bozer hated even _thinking_ about him. Mac always knew Bozer harbored guilt from that day, despite being so young, but he often forgot because how rarely Bozer ever mentioned his brother. He knew guilt had always been there, but he just never realized how much.

“Bozer, Josh’s death was _not_ your fault. He did not die because of you. It was an _accident_. It’s called an accident for a reason. It wasn’t on purpose. Mistakes had been made.”

“And I made them.”

Mac shook his head vehemently. “No, you did not.”

“I was supposed to watch him!”

“Bozer, you were a _child!”_ Mac snapped. “A child! If anyone should’ve been watching him, it was his parents. But they weren’t there, were they? No, they left. For a damn cake! They should’ve never left you alone, no matter how short they were gone for. And _they_ should’ve been more careful. If you’re gonna have a gun in your house, it’s the number one rule to keep it hidden and locked away. It should’ve never been within Josh’s reach, or yours. You should’ve never even _seen_ the damn thing. So don’t tell me Josh’s death was your fault. It wasn’t, Boze. I would never blame you for that.”

Bozer stayed quiet, but Mac could feel him trembling underneath his hold. “They blamed me.”

“Who?”

“My parents. They blamed me for it. They hated me so much after that.”

Mac sighed. “Boze-”

“They couldn’t even stand to look at me. They sometimes locked me in my room. God, Mac, they…they…”

Rage boiled up inside of him, a flaming hot ball of fury that would not be tamed until he saw Bozer’s parents again. He’d make sure he’d see them soon, and he planned to make sure he was bringing Hell with him.

“They put their hands on you, didn’t they?”

“Sure…if you want to put it like that.”

“That’s disgusting, Bozer.” He felt Bozer stiffen. “They should’ve never done that to you. Get it through your head now: Josh was not your fault, and you did not deserve what your parents did to you. Repeat that.”

“Mac-”

_“Repeat it.”_

“Josh was not my fault…”

“And?”

“And I did not deserve what my parents did to me.”

“Again.”

“Mac-”

_“Again.”_

“Josh was not my fault, and I did not deserve what my parents did to me.”

“Again.”

Tears streamed down Bozer’s face and his voice wavered as he repeated quietly, “Josh was not my fault, and I did not deserve what my parents did to me.”

“Good. Now keep saying that to yourself for as long as you need to, until you no longer believe that you deserve to feel worthless and pathetic. Because you aren’t, Boze. You aren’t expendable. You are needed. I need you.” If Mac’s own voice shook dangerously as he spoke, neither mentioned it.

“I want to end it sometimes, Mac. I just want it all to stop.”

Mac’s throat clogged up, tears threatening to spill. “Bozer…do you want to die?”

It took far too long for the answer to come, and it still was not the answer Mac had been praying desperately for. “…yes.”

“God, Boze,” Mac whispered, grip tightening even more, as if holding Bozer strongly would force out all of the bad things that plagued him. “God, please… _don’t_.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t do that. Don’t apologize. You have nothing to-” Mac couldn’t even finish his sentence. “God, just please, don’t do it. Never take your own life, Bozer. I can’t…I couldn’t…Just please. Don’t.”

Bozer, with his sobriety chip in one hand, used his free hand to wrap around the one Mac had around his shoulders. He squeezed tightly. “I…I won’t. I won’t do it. I won’t leave you. I just…I don’t know what to _do_. I don’t want to be like this anymore.”

“We’ll get through it. I’ll be right here beside you. I’ll help you. You’re not alone, Bozer. God, you never were.”

They stayed for a long time, unmoving and quiet. They lost track of time. All they knew was that it was almost morning by the time they doused the fire and headed into the house. But Mac never went to his room. Instead, he followed Bozer into his and stood beside him as Bozer opened a small box and placed his new sobriety chip next to the others: the silver 24 hours, the red one month, the gold two months, and now the green three months. And if the two of them fell asleep, side by side, in Bozer’s room, neither mentioned it. But if the two of them woke the next day, feeling closer than ever, well…neither minded.

All Bozer knew was that bottle was no longer calling him, and he no longer felt like glass on the floor. And even if he was, he knew that Mac would always be there to pick up the pieces and glue him back together.


End file.
